


Aftermath

by TheHiddenMemory



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e13 Dead Reckoning, Gen, Season 2, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 02:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9945641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHiddenMemory/pseuds/TheHiddenMemory
Summary: Aftermath of 2x13 Dead Reckoning.





	

“John.”

Her picture is still pinned on the board. He stares at it, and there’s nothing in his expression. He sits low in the chair, a sprawling slouch of his long frame. The rhythmic constant -- the click of keys on the keyboard - has stopped, the silence a voided hum.   

Outside it’s dark, the traffic a dull intermittent passing of vehicles lessening in frequency. 

“John,” Finch says again, and it’s low, uncharacteristically so, to which Reese is not familiar. It’s unversed and bare and daunt in the wake of narrowly adverted catastrophe two hours prior. 

_“I told you to stay clear.”_

“John.”

It’s louder this time, and Reese shifts himself further upright in his chair, the movement to his torso triggering a pained groan. 

Finch’s gaze sharpens, his body poised on the edge of his chair now. “You’re hurt,” he says.

“I’m fine,” Reese lies. 

Finch eyes him and Reese is staring at the photo again. Kara Stanton’s face stares back. 

_“Which is how I knew you’d put yourself in a situation like this, Mr. Reese.”_

“Go home, John.” It’s quiet again; that uncharacteristic softness.

Reese can’t be sure but he thinks the term is relative. 

“Rest here, if you’d rather.” 

The room is nested behind the Library’s stacks; small but sufficiently equipped, the bed against the far wall and the old sun-bleached desk against the neighboring wall. Reese is well acquainted.

He discards his shirt and starts peeling up the remaining sleeveless beneath when there’s an audible gasp -- a hitch of breath from the doorway behind him. Distantly, Reese discerns why. And Finch will know the difference between offensive combat wounds and those of a one-sided battering. 

Kara had. 

 _“What the hell did you do, John?”_  

“Good God, John, what happened?”

From behind him the familiar uneven tread descends upon him with urgency and Finch is tugging at the remaining garment, carefully insistent, until Reese confiscates it, allowing for an unobstructed view of the morass of deep bruising over the entirety of Reese’s exposed skin. 

“Dear Lord, John, who…?” His words halt, voice uneven. “Kara--?”

“No.”   

It’s abrupt. Reese tosses the sleeveless shirt to the bed. “Before that,” he says. “At Riker’s.”

Mostly.

Reese doesn’t turn. His shoulders shift in a shrug of trademark nonchalance, though the action is noticeably stiff. “Donnelly thought some unsupervised quality time out of the cell would give him what he needed.”

Comprehension eases into Finch’s features. It morphs to anger Reese does not expect. 

“It seems Agent Donnelly descended to a level I had not anticipated.” Finch’s lips are thin and disapproving, and the iciness in the smaller man’s words gives Reese pause. 

“The surveillance feeds…” Finch is saying, “there was a time gap, but it didn’t occur to me that…” He doesn’t finish. 

Reese has turned partway and Finch’s eyes have caught on the violent and dark bruises bleeding beneath the skin over the taller man’s ribs and abdomen. 

Reese sees his line of sight. “Fractured. No breaks,” he says before it’s asked. He turns. Finch’s hand catches his arm. 

“John,” he says, soft again.

_“John,” Kara says, “are you that incompetent?”_

Finch applies gentle pressure. “I’m sorry. I should have had better contingencies in place for this. I—”

“I took the risk, Finch.” 

It ends the conversation. 

But there’s something in the turn of Reese’s shoulders, the tautness of the muscles in his back.

Finch settles a hand to the ex-agent’s shoulder, careful over the dark bruising. 

Kara had dug her heel in.  

A wince. 

_“John.”_

_“John.”_ Louder this time. Pained. 

Reese looks down. His hand is gripping Finch’s wrist. Hard.

The shock rips and he drops it, breathing hard. The apology hasn’t even formed and already it doesn’t matter; already Finch has forgiven. 

The smaller man has moved to stand in front of him, and even while Reese will never understand, it no longer surprises him. 

_“What are you going to do, shoot me?”_

Finch is looking at him, concern unchecked. 

_“This is my past catching up with me. It doesn’t concern you.”_

_“But this moment does.”_

Finch’s brows are furrowed, the question plain, and it’s the gentleness in his expression that presses into Reese. 

 _“I’m not leaving you here, John.”_

“John,” Finch says finally, quietly pained. “What did she do to you?” 

Reese doesn’t answer.

 

 

 

 


End file.
